


The battle’s behind us, only adventures ahead

by TheForestUnderQuarantine



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: ATLAS crew - Freeform, Autistic Curtis, Autistic Pidge | Katie Holt, F/F, M/M, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), autistic author
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-09-18 21:58:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20320153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheForestUnderQuarantine/pseuds/TheForestUnderQuarantine
Summary: There was something about his communications officer onboard the ATLAS. The man was perceptive. Friendly. Had a way with words that got you on-side and a gaze that said ‘I see you, and I hope you’re doing alright.’Takashi Shirogane is struggling to be the Captain his crew needs. No longer the black paladin, he is re-adjusting to life working alongside Voltron surrounded my a crew of seasoned professionals, but is once again enmeshed within the politics of the Garrison. Even in the depths of space, there's no avoiding being only a part in the chain of command. On top of the immaturity from the people allegedly in charge are the MFEs & paladins who, after being forced to grow up fast, finally have a small reprieve to act their age while they continue to search for Honerva. It warms Shiro's heart, but the gulf between their experiences is made clear. Shiro must keep his crew safe in the depths of space, needs to be their pillar of strength. But he's struggling. The loss of his former partner weighs heavy on his mind, as does the trauma of his own death & captivity under the Galra. The only respite from his thoughts comes in the calm companionship of an awkward communications officer & dog videos.





	1. In his corner

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first published fanfic. Wanted to make some positive content for anyone who saw the wedding & was like 'I wonder what that relationship would be like.' My mind likes to fill in blanks & felt restless not imagining how the two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is my first published fanfic. Wanted to make some positive content for anyone who saw the wedding & was like 'I wonder what that relationship would be like.' My mind likes to fill in blanks & felt restless not imagining how the two came together.

There was something about his communications officer onboard the ATLAS. The man was perceptive. Friendly. Had a way with words that got you on-side and a gaze that said ‘I see you, and I hope you’re doing alright.’ Shiro would often feel it, a prickling sensation at the back of his neck, as if someone had set a candle-flame to the skin and he had to shudder to avoid its burn. This candle was clearly attached to the calmest blue eyes. Shiro would turn, eyebrow raised in a coy ‘do you need something’ expression. Any communications officer worth their salt would be able to decipher the question in his eyes. But there was no hostility on Shiro’s end; if anything, the heat on the back of his neck was a welcome distraction from his tasks, from memories of someone who could not wait for him, and if it wasn’t unwelcome Shiro would have told Curtis to knock it off.  
Meeting Curtis’s eyes was like falling into a safe pool. Would immediately douse the flame on his neck and the fire in his belly. The moments Curtis could hold his eyes were the nicest Shiro ever had on that bridge. If he was lucky, it would be accompanied by the warmest smile. Mouth curved with not the forced politeness that came with the respect Shiro’s rank deserved, but genuine affection. Shiro wished that smile could extend to their communications, currently littered with more sirs to rival a business letter and mission-focused spiels. Because that smile kept him grounded, even all these thousands of kilometres in space. 

More often than not, Curtis would avert his gaze though. Get his own heat visible on the back of his neck and tips of his ears, chew on his chapped lips and shoot off their location in space and that everything was going fine. Hit some keys to bring up their current flight-path with the 3D-model of their current velocity vector’s calculated from their position in space and current speed. His fingers, so sure in battle, would be clumsier on the keyboard whenever he knew Shiro was watching. Shiro had checked this before in the past—watching him work diligently and efficiently from inside the entryway whenever he’d ‘leave to get coffee.’ Curtis would work with more confidence when his commander was supposedly out of the room. It was curious. A bit frustrating if Shiro was being honest that his officer was clearly put-off by his presence, but the man was too good at his job even with stuttering fingers and non-personable mission words to ever ask if he was fully into his work. 

He was going over schematics, reaching on the command room’s holographic wall-spread map to zoom in on an allied planet the IGF-Atlas was passing when he felt it again. Those eyes on the back of his head. He tilted his neck a fraction to watch the communications officer without being seen, eyes zeroing in on the bobbing of his Adam’s apple and the slightly dazed expression on Curtis’s face. That look—Shiro shook his head, not wanting to smile at how Curtis seemed to be following every word, move and gesture as he explained the terrain to a politely listening Sam Holt and a subtly yawning Commander Iverson. It was perhaps getting too late and might be better to reconvene in the morning, but he felt he was on a roll and was eager to explain his thinking and course of action for the coming days. Coran was stretching in the background, legs bending down like a frog before he shot up and then leapt down again. The clock in the upper corner of the map said it was 3:37 AM earth time. Perhaps it would be better to sleep. 

Shiro looked to his team on the bridge. Veronica was sprawled over a document, a thin line of drool staining the corner as her cheek sort to become one with it as a pillow. He straightened up and adjusted the collar on his uniform, a nervous habit that came with wanting to make sure everything was in order and that he was still there in his body and in his clothes. The uniform was stiff. Restricted movement across the chest and shoulders, and the collar was felt starched and rigid against his neck. He was relieved to be in one, feeling the ache on his body with every stretch. He was alive. He stood up to his full height. Rubbed the back of his neck, stretched out the kinks. 

“We’ve been going pretty hard today. Let’s call it a night and regroup in the morning. I’m proud of all your efforts today.”

There was a stony silence as Shiro flinched. “Sorry, that sounded a bit condescending. Used to giving encouragement to teenagers. You know how it is.”

Iverson and Sam nodded sagely and Coran stroked his moustache. “Ah yes, they do need a bit of extra reinforcement that they’re on the right track. Why, even Allura for all her intelligence and poise still gets a bit tied up on whether she’s doing the right thing.” He struck a pose. “That being said, I’d be absolutely stoked if you were proud of us. I’m proud of you too, m’boy.”

Shiro tried to smile as a piece of sweat dropped, but the attempt was mostly twitching. His grey eyes caught on ice blue before he saw them crinkle closed as Curtis tried to hide his smile into the crook of his shoulder. The man’s eyes widened as he realized he’d been caught in the act of laughing at his commander, and a slight hang-dog expression morphed over his face. His bottom lip jutted out in a near pout, his eyes looked as wide as puss-in-boots in the classic (although he’d never admit it to any of the younger paladins) movie series, Shrek. Where Shiro should have felt consternation at his colleague’s chuckling, he felt only warmth. The hint of his own smile. 

“Appreciate it, Coran,” he nodded with a smile. “Really. Maybe we should all be a bit more generous in acknowledging hard work. Couldn’t hurt.”

Commander Iverson cleared his throat. “I find it loosens discipline a bit too much overtime. A bit of firmness goes a long way in keeping officers diligent and in-line.”

“Not how I like to lead, but it’s a fair method.”

Iverson shrugged. “It was how I taught you. But whatever works. I’m not going to try and undermine your authority.”

Shiro smiled. “It’s too early in the morning for a mutiny isn’t it, Sir.”

Iverson barked out a laugh. 

Veronica groaned and held her head. “Too early for humour.”

“Is it even the start of a new day unless you’ve fallen asleep? My son Matt always says it’s still the night-time until he’s woken up. I think he just uses it as an excuse to keep gaming and coding into the early hours whenever I give him an ultimatum: you can play tonight, but that’s it until the weekend. Kids, right?” Sam said in a low, even tone, every word a smile.

“Matt’s got the right idea,” Veronica pushed past them. Politely. “Too late to be up. I’m going to bed.” 

Shiro nodded. “Everyone’s dismissed.” He thought he saw a dash of blue—like a strike of lipstick across the field of vision—by the door as they automatically whooshed open, but his eyesight could have been playing tricks on him. They had been utilised for almost a full twenty-four hours at that point.

The crew left with various hurried goodbyes, yawns, and one overly friendly pat on the shoulder from Coran with a whispered “You’re truly doing a great job, Captain” accompanied by a thumbs up. Shiro was too sleepy to hide the smile that welled up on his face as he whispered back “Thanks Coran.” The semi-crazy space uncle was the shining light on an otherwise dreary day of meetings and plans. Plans for the meetings. Meetings for the plans. Bureaucracy was something Shiro would never be comfortable with, as much as he’d taught himself to be still for it and sit through it. He’d become used to explaining his plans to his crew, working out the details, having it followed. Having to run everything by the Garrison itself back home—even as Captain of the Atlas—was pure drudgery. They typically gave him free reign of the ship and of the crew, trusting him to be accountable to the people under his command, but there first few days in space bringing the fight to Honerva had been a labyrinth of signing off and checking in to the relevant Earth bodies as they left it further and further behind to reassure them all was going according to plan.

Shiro was exhausted. And if he was honest with himself, quite a bit annoyed by all the layers in the chain of command. He was only one man, after all. A man with a completely new body that still felt like it had aged more than his twenty-six years. Christ he needed a holiday.

He let out a long-suffering sigh as Sam Holt finally left, having been distracted by the glow of the map on the wall, feeling his shoulders fall under the weight of his exhaustion. He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. Breathed in-out, in-out, feeling it wheeze through his nostrils. After the anxiety had gone down, he rubbed his thumb and forefinger from the centre outwards along his scar on either side. The raised tissue ached on cold days, but the steady temperature of the Atlas prevented him from feeling it most days. There was still some sensitivity around the skin beside it, but he was often too busy to feel it. Even now, exhausted, the experience of tracing the scar was not as irritating as it would have been if he was more alert. Part of it was starting to sink into a valley below the level of his skin, but it was still raised in patches. 

He zoned out for a while, feeling himself, paying attention to the breath parting through his nostrils and mouth. Feeling the day’s stresses pool into his stomach and then release. He didn’t indulge in the sense-memory of the pain he felt upon receiving the scar—the claw of the Galra general almost ripping his nose clean off his face—but rather allowed his mind to wander back to pleasanter times. The in-and-out motions of his fingers pinching and then spreading across his scar changed to just his index finger running back and forth along the bridge.

When Adam had gotten his glasses—those stylish half-framed spectacles—Shiro would often take the time to run his finger beneath the outline, tracing their shape on his face. Calling them his sexy specs all the while and nuzzling into his neck. His partner had been a little embarrassed about getting them, fearing that they made him look like the nerd he’d been teased about being in high school. That confession had truly shaken Shiro, as Adam’s confidence and lack of toleration for fools had been one of many things that had attracted him to his co-pilot. Seeing the usual hard-edged logical man be so vulnerable and ‘stupidly insecure’ (his words, not Shiro’s) in front of him—why, it had increased his attraction tenfold, leading to his habit of stroking along his face. Sometimes he’d remove Adam’s glasses and just trace random patterns, sometimes pretending he’d given him a monocle, until Adam would laugh and tell him to stop. Enough. Take his hand and thread their fingers together so the ticklish touches would cease. Never acknowledge the sheer eroticism and vulnerability of Adam submitting to his caress. It was a comfort habit for Shiro, to feel his partner’s flushed cheeks beneath his fingertips, feel his skin expand and retract along those high cheekbones with every breath. Shiro was pretty sure it was a comfort habit for Adam, too, although he was too stubborn to admit it.

Adam never had a scar on his nose. Shiro knew he was just touching his own face. It dipped and curved in all the wrong places. His nose-bridge was that little bit broader. But give him a moment so he could just pretend—

He felt his own breath hitch through his nose before he even registered he had started to sob. He’d blame it on the stress of the day. He moved his hand, palm wiping up and away across his eye—first one, then the other—to catch any tears before they dared fall. He took a deep breath. Composed himself. Patience yields focus, Takashi. Restraint yields self-respect. 

He’d calmed himself, returned to being the stoic Commander he needed to be, when he heard the faint scuffle of shoes from the console at the front of the room.

“Sorry, Sir,” Curtis scratched the back of his neck. “The grip on my shoes is truly terrible on these floors. I didn’t mean to—”

Curtis gestured vaguely. Interrupt? Let you know I was there? God, he must have thought Shiro was an absolutely strange dickhead, just standing in the middle of the room stroking his own face like some sensation addicted pervert.

The prickle of embarrassment and awareness at being watched was back on his neck. Across his face. “Officer. About what you just saw—”

“It happens, Captain,” Curtis reassured. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. Just … just be, if you need to be for a bit. If anything I’m sorry I was so slow to get everything closed up. I thought reading over the last few details on my report wouldn’t cause an issue but I hadn’t realized not everyone had … gone …”

Shiro was not in any mood for games or apologies, his usual patience spread thin by unintended vulnerability and lack of sleep. “It’s fine, but you were dismissed. Next time maybe take a holo-pad to bed. I could have turned off all the lights and put the systems in here on energy-saving hibernate, and you’d have been stuck in here in the dark. I’d have hated to switch the light off on you, without knowing. I’m surprised: you’re usually so diligent in your duties. Here at exactly the right time. On every detail.”

Curtis shrugged, a bit meek. Looked at his shoes and then directly at Shiro, making eye contact—and then having it veer off to around his ear. It was a habit that Shiro was used to with Pidge and Keith, that MFE pilot Ina, Matthew, Colleen Holt, Professor Montgomery—most of the Garrison staff, now that he thought about it. Neurodivergence was proudly celebrated at the Galaxy Garrison, and it took a certain type of character to excel in their conditions. A certain kind of interest or focus that many neurotypicals never seemed to reach. Shiro felt himself grow more patient. He got that eye contact could be hard sometimes and knew it was something both his younger charges struggled with, so he extended the same consideration to his new communications officer. “I wouldn’t have minded, Captain. My fault for being a bit slower to pack up and move on. It’s more realistic and it’s something I agree with. I’m trying to get better there, sir, but sometimes I just need a little extra time to get myself ready to leave to the next thing. Sometimes I need to make sure things are switched off and where they need to be a couple of times. Just to check to myself that it’s all okay, even if that means re-reading over the same few sentences until I’m calm and able to go sleep soundly, or that I’ve logged out correctly even though I know I have. I know it’s a bit—it should be on my file. My old performance evaluations. I’m cleared though, for performing highly enough to be on this bridge. I won’t let you down.”

It was the most he’d ever heard the officer speak. Shiro wondered if the officer was putting on his contrition—those earnest eyes flicking to his own when they could, the stress on his jawline and hands from clenching and tension—Shiro felt he was just saying what he needed to say, honest and direct. He wouldn’t have minded being left behind. 

Shiro hoped he wasn’t used to it. “It’s early—or late, depending on how you look at things. It’s totally fine to be a little sluggish. If anything, I should be commending you on sticking around to do a thorough job when everyone else was so eager to head off. So—” he put a comforting hand on Curtis’s shoulder. “At ease Officer. You’re doing a great job.”  
His pep talk was cut off by his own major yawn. Adam used to say he looked like the Paramount lion whenever it got that wide. 

Curtis was staring at the hand on his shoulder, a tentative smile emerging, even if it was a bit perplexed. 

Shiro blinked slowly as he looked at him. To dispel the yawn. Obviously. “I realize we haven’t had much opportunity to talk. I know Veronica from cadets, Coran from space, Sam as both my teacher and my mentor, and Iverson for being the hardass drill-sergeant nasty that whipped me into shape. But you—

“We were in the same class together,” Curtis interrupted. “At the garrison. From cadets onwards, although we branched off when you went to being a full-time fighter pilot.”

Shiro stared, his mind foggy but now suddenly doused with regret at his social faux pas and lack of memory. He stared and stared. “Why don’t I remember you?”

Curtis ducked his head. Shrugged. “We talked a few times but I was mostly in the background. Or back seat, rather. You were always nice to me and it meant the world. I’d keep a spare pen handy in case you or Adam forgot yours. For anybody really, but no-one else ever really asked or was so prone to misplacing them before class. You guys would always be looking forward though, or at each other. Wanting to be the best. Competing with each other to be the best. As if every problem on the board, every piece of information, would get you that one step closer to the stars.” His smile was now set, a calm, slightly sombre thing. “You guys inspired the class, you know. We could only really watch and hope we could catch up one day. In our own time.”

Shiro breathed out deeply, expression pinched. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you.”

Curtis shrugged. “It was a decade ago. You can’t expect to remember every single person in the classroom.”

“Still. I wish I did. I wish we’d all been friends.”

Curtis’s smile was almost blinding when it reached his eyes. Aquamarine. They were as shiny and pale as cut aquamarine. “I wouldn’t mind being your friend now, Captain. Even if it’s a professional one, with boundaries. I’m in your corner. Always.”

Shiro could feel himself smiling back.


	2. Slav enters the scene & for the love of bench-presses

Shiro realized he should not have stayed up so late as soon as his alarm went off two hours later. Even setting it for six as opposed to his usual four-thirty did not give him the sleep he needed to be fully there for his crew and for the early video call scheduled with the United Nations back home. Shiro hoped Curtis was more on the ball than him this morning, or else he doubted they’d be sending the call to the right person. Shiro could imagine it now: accidentally tapping into a Galra frequency & sending in a transmission of them—defenders of the universe—staring dumbly into the camera, eyes only half awake, uniforms looking slept in from lack of time to press it out. Purple faces would be glaring back, yellow eyes wide with surprise and disgust, and they’d pause for quite some time at the sheer stupidity of it before acting against them. It would cause such a potentially deadly incident on top of being an embarrassing mess Shiro would be unable to live down. In fact, if that ever happened, Shiro would be wishing for death. 

He trudged down the corridors of the ATLAS with his feet trailing behind him, his eyes glassy, his grey hair askew and flopping in the wrong direction. His uniform was completely done up, but it felt wrong somehow. It wasn’t sitting right, no matter how much he patted it down and straightened it out whenever he wasn’t passing a crewmember. The halls were mostly deserted at this hour. The ship felt dead. This wasn’t the best course of action and he was surprised they’d all overlooked it for so long—he’d need to schedule a night rotation crew, to ensure the ship remained functioning and unbreeched while the majority of the crew slept, especially as they got further out into perilous space. He didn’t doubt the power’s of Allura’s Altean crystal in keeping the ship online. Didn’t doubt the cruise-control, that the ship would stay on its charted course and avoid fatal collisions with planets. Didn’t doubt the alarms would sound if the ship’s scanners picked up the presence of another ship. But he knew from Pidge that sensors were easily hacked, and vehicles like the Green Lion easily cloaked. Constant vigilance was needed. They couldn’t just rely on the technology to be fool-proof. So great, another item to figure out. He let out a long suffering sigh and stopped walking. If he kept walking, he might just scream.

He did pass some of the earlier risers—Kinkade saluted him as he passed, camera out of hand for once. Shiro nodded at him. At ease. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see James Griffin sneaking out of Ina Leifsdottir’s quarters with all the subtly of a strutting peacock. He—could not be bothered dealing with the shenanigans of youths at the moment, no less have to deal with James Griffin. He dealt with it enough with the other paladins, and while he cared a great deal about them he had yet to bond with the MFEs. 

Fraternisation at the Garrison, while not encouraged, wasn’t penalised by anyone outside of Iverson and Sanda, the latter of whom was dead and the former a grouch who was easy to navigate around. A relief really, considering he and Adam were flight partners—working every mission, doing every drill—on top of being partners. Everyone knew. They had their own living quarters. A bed that was always made by Adam in the early hours after—it was too early in the day for Adam to be in his thoughts, and not actually be there beside him, so he stopped that line of thought. Rather than see bonds on a mission as a hindrance, they knew it was extra insurance that everyone would do their best job and make it back alive. It was one reason Matt Holt was allowed to go to Kerberos with his father. So long as their was no exploitation—an instructor could never, ever date a cadet under them, current or former (frankly he didn’t see why anyone would want to)—the Garrison saw no problem in fraternisation. So long as it didn’t get in the way of the job at hand. 

He walked passed the firing range and was surprised to see the McClain siblings, Lance sitting on the ground behind her with his legs tucked in underneath him, his hands in enthusiastic fists on his thighs and no doubt the biggest grin on his face as he watched his older sister make every shot. Veronica had earmuffs on to cancel out the sound of the gun, so she couldn’t hear the whoops and impressed hollers of her younger brother. He did see her gaze glance down to the plucky former blue paladin, but by then he’d flailed into a calm sitting position and seemed to just solemnly nod at his sister in a ‘good job’ way. Classic Lance. 

Never let his vulnerability show.

Always in awe of his family.

Shiro was surprised Allura was not sitting with him. Griffin and Leifsdottir’s canoodling immediately brought his mind to the pair of new lovers. Keith had told him all about Lance and Allura’s date prior to entering space.

“He took her home to meet his family, Shiro. Family!” It was said with a flurry of hand motions. “And he looked so ridiculous. His stupid fringe was even more skewed under a bin. A bin Shiro. He climbed all the way up Black with a bin on his stupid head. Who does that? Had sausages wrapped around his neck, too. I mean, Cosmo appreciated them, but it looked ridiculous. Like a lanky tin soldier. Coran said it was an Altean custom, but I think he was having him on. Even if Coran wasn't, why come up all that way in ridiculous date gear? Leave it at the bottom! Makes it so much easier to climb. Tsk, he’s such an idiot.”

The idiot was said with such fondness, despite Keith crossing his arms and looking away. Shiro tried not to give his little brother a knowing look. Tried not to smile too slyly. Too knowingly. At the same time, he felt terrible for Keith. Feelings were hard. Even harder when they weren’t reciprocated. Shiro was impressed that Keith—once impatient, temperamental, moody Keith—was taking it so well. Just being there for his two friends, because he loved them and love was unconditional. It would take time. Hurt more than anything and he might occasionally wonder ‘what if I’d—’ but those what ifs would fade with time, until he had his brilliant friendships and it was hard to remember the hurt that came with crushing, only the pleasant imaginative butterflies as it became a happy daydream and not a crushing non-reality. 

Bringing him back to his sleepy reality was Slav elbowing him with all four of his right arms. “There’s a 80% chance Ms McClain will make all six of her next shots, and a 20% chance you are thinking of how her little brother broke your little brother’s heart in this reality, hm?” He said it with such plucky, knowing cheer too! The creepy little octopoid owl bastard.

“Slav—

Lance’s head shot over to the doorway, confused face immediately breaking into a sunny smile. “Shiro, hey!” 

The movement from her brother as he waved caused Veronica’s shot to go wide and she cursed way more loudly than she realized under her ear muffs. She took them off and glanced to Shiro, then between Shiro and Slav and smirked. “Captain. Having an enjoyable morning?”

Shiro’s eyes screamed ‘help me’ as Slav beamed back and shouted “Yes Lieutenant McClain! We are having a splendid morning talking about realities, both the harsh and the good.”  
Taking no heed of Shiro’s mental screaming, Veronica said “That’s nice” and quickly returned to her firing position, wanting nothing to do with the engineer’s predictive rambles. Lance, meanwhile, had scrambled over. 

“Hey Slav, I have a question about realities. See I was wondering—” Lance’s eyes were a bit bloodshot from his lack of sleep, the bags and lines under his eyes visible even in spite of his skin care routine. Either that, or he’d been neglecting his self-care.

“Ah my boy,” Slav’s smile was sad, his beak clicking sombrely. “I’m afraid telling you how that story will end will only increase its chances of ending poorly. Love is better as a surprise, yes? More romantic and spontaneous if there’s risk involved as you sweep your paramour off their feet, yes?”

Lance blinked and then his face lit up with the biggest grin. “Hey, yeah you’re right! And what can I say, I’m only the most spontaneous, most romantic devilishly handsome guy.”

“I’m 99% positive they will be swooning for you in no time, Paladin McClain.”

His smile sparkled, but as soon as he stopped looking at Slav Shiro could see it falter slightly. Resigned. Growing firmer into content as he nodded and looked up to Shiro and then back to Slav. “It’ll be an adventure.”

Slav smiled kindly. “Love always is.” 

Lance nodded enthusiastically, but stopped when Slav instead brought up the possibilities of him cleaning the ATLAS’s sweaty training gym if he tried to get his date’s attention in too bold and brash and firework-y of a manner. He practically dived out of the room with a hasty “tell my sister she’s almost as much of a sharpshooter as I am” and bolted down the corridor.

Shiro laughed. He laughed and laughed until his belly felt tight and sore underneath the skin. “Whew, I don’t think I need to work out this morning. Slav, do you really just chuck out statistics to mess with people and end a conversation?”

The alien narrowed his eyes. Halfway glared at his nemesis-now-captain. “Maybe. Speaking of love, judging from that meeting last night there is a—hm—23% chance you’ll find the love of your life on this ship.”

Shiro spluttered. If he’d been drinking, it would have spurted everywhere, but thankfully he was just choking on air. “Not … not possible Slav. I lost him when I chose to fly.”

“The calculations do not lie,” Slav said firmly. Then, gently: “There can be many loves of a person’s lives in one lifetime. Commander West was yours for a time, and will be with you always, but you have a big heart, Takashi Shirogane. It might resonate with somebody else’s, one day. Like a weird fleshy antenna tuning in to another.”

“…Lovely.”

“I say this because,” Slav stepped closer, leant in conspiratorially. Shiro leaned down to hear what he had to whisper. He was not expecting the hands that came up to imitate cupping his jaw. “In 1% of realities, that love is me.”

Shiro’s scream woke up the majority of the crew. Nadia Rizavi started the rumour that you could still hear it reverberate for months to come.

Shiro knew he’d stuffed up the moment he heard Bae Bae barking her head off and the sound of heavy footfalls rushing to his location. Wasn’t worth the traumatised look on Slav’s face.

“Sir!” Most of his bridge team had scrambled to the front of people rushing towards him, with a few bleary eyed lower-ranking officers following closely behind. Lance who had been so close by had also brought Allura and Romelle with him. Iverson looked pissed, his eyebrows practically acute angles in his anger. Coran was holding some contraption in his hand, seemingly ready for a lethal fight. Perhaps most surprising of all was Curtis leading the effort to find him, eyes clear, expression set firm, tension all through his jaw as he ran towards him. 

Shiro raised his Altean arm, scratched the back of his head while lifting his biological arm to signal to them to stop. He tried to smile, calmly, but internally he was screaming. 

“Captain,” Curtis breathed in relief and lowered his gun. He smiled with both his eyes and his mouth.

The rest of the crew who had been woken up or else taken from their morning routines were not smiling. Iverson pushed Curtis out of the way, arms crossed over each other, upper lip twitching in barely restrained malice. “Captain Shirogane. Explain this … impromptu wake up call.”

Shiro flinched. Looked at a shaken up Slav who looked guiltily back. There was no explaining what had actually happened. No way in hell. But Slav needed to pay. 

“Slav thought he saw a spider and leapt onto me, bawling. The move surprised me because I wasn’t fully awake. I’m so sorry to have alarmed everyone,” he looked at them all, contrite and sincere.

“What’s a spider?” Romelle asked. “And is it dangerous?”

“How did it get on board the ship?” That was Coran.

Iverson meanwhile was practically spitting while muttering. “Fucking Griffin didn’t do his cleaning checks and pest control before leaving. Or decontaminating the ship failed.”  
“There are no pests who’ve snuck on board. Slav just saw a shadow and panicked.”

Shiro heard another mutter, this one from Lance. “Save the mice. The quiznaking rats.”

“So really, it’s a false alarm and I’m horrified to have caused any distress or disrupted sleep in my crew. I am so sorry.”

It was going to be a long, long day.

The meeting didn’t go as badly as he thought it would (not accidental video-calling a Galra ship was a low bar though). It was a pleasant relief for the Captain to hear Earth’s restoration was going well. That people were starting to relocate out from the Garrison and that the people forced to work by the Galra had started to return to their homes. Ecological damage left by the Galra’s brutal resource extraction had dealt a blow to the environment, but trees were slowly starting to grow, bees return and soil degradation was being reversed through instructions left by Colleen Holt. Sam Holt touched his wife’s shoulder at that bit of information and she smiled. There were a few aggressive voices in the meeting. A few who after all this time and for having already allocated the resources for the ATLAS and for its crew’s survival in space were starting to get cold toes about the whole ‘Honerva situation,’ calling the idea of an alien ‘space witch’ ludicrous and complaining that all money and manpower should have gone to increasing Earth’s immediate defences. Shiro had to practically bite his tongue from swearing as he calmly explained: “We are Earth’s immediate defences.” They’d met Alteans—heck, Coran was standing right behind him, and Princess Allura had a whole block of time to speak her history and on the threat that Honerva brought. They’d heard the Princess’s impassioned words. Seen how Earth had havoc wrought upon it by the Galra. By the quintessence draining Komar Robeast. They’d seen footage of Honerva’s unrelenting, unforgiving resolve in her disposal of her own fighter, Luka, from the Garrison’s med bay. There would be no reasoning with Honerva. No mercy. The more they spoke about their reservations, the more frustrated Shiro could feel himself growing. All he could put on was a level, compassionate façade though. No point in starting an international incident back home while they were drifting away into space. No one on Earth would appreciate it. 

The only thing that got him through the meeting was a small bird—a nondescript, dustball of a sparrow—who had snuck in through the small opening of a window. While one of the delegates was rambling about the heroism and daring feats expected of them with all the lofty tones of someone who wanted to be a writer but had no talent for it, the bird flapped into frame. It perched onto the table beside the delegate, stealing a piece of fruit from the spread put in front of him all while the man’s pot-marked cheeks grew red and sweaty under his lengthy, breathless pronouncements. The bird happily hopped around the table, the delegate beside the speaker glancing down perturbed but trying to pretend nothing out of the ordinary was happening, not wanting to draw attention to the birdy break-in. It tucked into the piece of watermelon, black beady eyes closing in bliss. Shiro could see Curtis—working on the console in front of him to keep the transmission going—chuckle and duck his head into his shoulder at the sight of the plucky sparrow to try and hide his smile lest it have made it into frame. Shiro caught his eye and Curtis straightened up in his seat, but Shiro could see he immediately started to smile again when he saw the bird start to peck at the delegates fingers. No fear. It was a sweet sight. A sweeter smile. Shiro felt his own grow as his eyes flicked back to the delegate’s to pretend he’d been attentive the entire time.

“Captain Shirogane, we have heard reports from rebel scouts that there are still Galra warlords trying to make a powerplay in the Plethtonian region, practically a ‘stone throw’ away from your ETA on day 39. Be careful,” this information was given by an Olkarion representative. It was the first piece of information that was relevant to their journey.

“Understood. Please give these rebel scouts our transmission frequency so they can correspond with us directly as we move closer to the vicinity.”

The representative nodded. “Doing so as we speak.”

“Thank you,” Shiro smiled. “And send Ryner our regards next time you see her in person.”

“Consider it done,” the alien smiled pleasantly.

They wanted to hear from the head of Voltron. Shiro, as former Black Paladin, felt like he needed to be fielding the questions for Keith. Unfortunately his younger brother was missing in action. Shiro suspected he was running away from all his problems again and hitting some droids on the training floor, but he did not say this as he politely gave the delegates ‘Keith’s’ apology for being absent, making up some excuse about strategic planning and meetings with the Blades (he could practically feel Kolivan glaring at him from behind. He couldn’t see him, but he just knew he was there). More mature and easier to use an excuse than admit the leader of Voltron was hopelessly pining and trying to beat out a robot because of it. Shiro asked them what information they needed passed on, but to his immense surprise, Lance stepped forward, eyes fiery with determination. This determination was immediately displaced by anxiety and terror, his pupils darting like pinballs between Shiro and the representatives on the viewscreen. 

“Er, hi—I mean, ‘sup guys, I’m Lance. Paladin of the Red Lion and Keith’s right hand. Literally. He’s not here right now, but he’s asked me to take questions in the event of his absence. So,” the scrawny young man shrugged. “Fire away.”

Shiro blinked slowly. There were holes in his confidence, but the former Blue Paladin had really grown to just step in so smoothly. No discernible pick-up lines. Perhaps too easy-going and casual in his delivery—still some cockiness to be ironed out—but Shiro counted himself impressed that Lance had stepped in without prompting. And that his brother had delegated. Perhaps Keith was more responsible than Shiro gave him credit for, even when ditching. 

They’d all grown up so much. Shiro felt like a proud space big brother. 

(He felt guilt, a non-personal genuinely regretful guilt, that they had all had to grow up so quickly). 

Shiro smiled at Lance reassuringly, catching his eye and giving a proud nod. Lance grinned back, resisting the urge to do finger guns. Shiro could see it and rolled his eyes, before correcting his expression, standing up straighter with his arms casually crossed to hear what they had to say to the members of Voltron, and what Lance had to say back.  
It was a bombardment of questions about Voltron as a super weapon. No matter how many times they’d been briefed on what Voltron was and what it did, there was always awe-ridden inquiries by any envoy that encountered them. Some queries were fear-driven, others trying their best not to fangirl. Lance handled the more positive ones like a pro, swelling with pride for his lions and the hard work of his friends. He was able to report that the team had increased the speed of their connection from individual lions into Voltron by 30%, cutting down on some of the inefficiencies in timing. The paladin’s synchronisation rate was the highest it had ever been in their drills, seemingly improved by their time on earth and the knowledge that their families loved them and were safe, although there had been some slight inconsistencies in the mind-melds between the red, black and blue paladins. This was said sheepishly.

“But my buddies Hunk and Pidge are absolutely impeccable, as usual. Hunk’s a great leg. Such a pillar of support for us all. That’s not to say Allura’s not also a great leg!” Lance flailed. Shiro glanced to Allura to see her alternating between staring at the floor and glaring daggers into her boyfriend’s back. “Just my buddy Hunk’s doing a great job and has been absolutely flawless and I think we all collectively need to celebrate that.”

There was a polite round of applause from the seated delegates on screen and Lance grinned smugly. Curtis glanced back at Lance with a smile. “It’s what he deserves. But anyway, the practice drills have been going great. Keith’s been making some really great decisions and we’re all getting so coordinated and in-tune, he’s doing so great. But yeah, if the Atlas needs defending Voltron and the MFEs are on stand-by and we won’t let your investment in us down. And we’re going to kick Honerva’s ass.”

He didn’t quite stick the landing, if the flat expressions of the delegation were anything to go by.

The meeting was dismissed soon after and Shiro felt relieved that he’d managed to stand for all of it without either falling asleep or vomiting from sheer nausea from lack of said sleep. He trudged through the next round of meetings with the Atlas’s engineering team in a daze, which wasn’t great considering Coran was the head of the group and more switched on than an Olkarion circuit board and throwing curveballs and rhetorical questions at him that he could only just keep up with. Coran didn’t seem to realize Shiro wasn’t fully into the conversation, and was flashily running around the room, pointing at various panels and running Shiro through a map of the ship he’d prepared earlier with a running commentary. Shiro switched off shortly after Coran said everything was running to an optimal standard, although kept listening in case of any unexpected “oh, there’s a slight chance of the engine exploding if we pass by any asteroid’s with Hypno-Plutonium bunnies” but thankfully there was nothing. The ship was fine. Hadn’t hit anything. There was no damage from space debris or the asteroid field they’d had to navigate through. Everything was fine. 

The tremors started a little way through his morning workout. Usually he’d mix it up and had a proven routine for keeping his body in shape and toned. Adam would use to laugh when he’d say this: “That’s not toned, Takashi. That’s a full-on chiselled physique. That’s not ‘trim’ that’s entirely cut. But this morning, all he felt like doing was running. He could feel a weakness in his arm which he ignored as he ran his usual mileage. The repetition of his feet thudding into a new steady rhythm through each interval speed on the treadmill helped him zone out from his bodily exhaustion. The rhythm kept him going before he touched on lifts and his core muscle exercises, feeling like he was floating as he alternated between sets of reverse crunches, leg raises and three-point planks alongside a few of his other simple favourites. Just kept it all quite light to match how his head was feeling. He knew his body and got the feeling that anything too high-intensity would set off vomiting. 

He felt pricks of shame coil in his belly when Curtis came into the gym with an easy-going smile. The lanky man immediately began doing warmup stretches, his arm stretches revealing that—hey, maybe not so lanky. His arm muscles casually bulged, no longer hidden by the restrictive and flattening Garrison uniform. The loose casual gym shirt hung off his frame, perhaps a bit tighter around the chest and—Shiro felt his brain short circuiting as he put those arms over his head in a tricep stretch, the motion pulling his shirt tighter across the chest. That was … unexpectedly broad. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, like he’d eaten a cotton-ball. He finished his plank and swigged a mouthful of water to be on the safe side. For hydration. He suddenly felt the urge to do higher-intensity exercise. Like he wasn’t doing enough.

Those blue eyes flicked down to him, and Curtis walked over. “Been in long, sir?”

Shiro nodded. “Nearly finishing up now. Just going to do some upper body, then a cool down.”

“Nice,” Curtis flashed a smile. “Do you need a spotter at all?”

Shiro considered it. “I’d hate to take you from your training.”

“It’s absolutely no problem. I’d feel more comfortable exercising knowing you were safe, and can always extend my session a little longer.” Curtis blinked. “We don’t have anything important scheduled until the afternoon, right?”

“Right,” Shiro smiled loosely. “It’s lucky we’re off at similar times. Well, not that I’m off-off. Anything happens and I just have to drop it, you know?”

“I do,” Curtis nodded. “Not to your extent being Captain, but we’ve all had to dash to our consoles at least once as soon as the alarms sound off.”

“God, right? Most annoying sound.” Shiro went over to the weights. “Like it’s terrifying and serious but sometimes it’s like ‘again? Really?’”

“It’s irksome,” Curtis supplied. “Doesn’t downplay that it’s dangerous, but when you hear it so often it sort of becomes—

“Like a bad routine. Just repetitive.”

Curtis looked between Shiro and the weights he’d added to the bar with wide eyes. “Yeah. Um, sir, how much do you lift? That looks like you’d easily be able to bench press me.”

Shiro looked between him and the weights, calculating. “Hm, maybe,” he said with a slightly cocky grin. 

Curtis almost spluttered. He was definitely growing redder around the ears and across those high cheek bones. Shiro grinned wider. That was quite fun. He wasn't usually one for showing off, but sometimes it was hilarious. “I’m just going to four sets of six reps. That okay with you?”

“Is it ever, Sir,” Curtis grinned and got into position by Shiro’s head as he lay back. The tremors from earlier were forgotten about. The endorphins from the exercise were helping him come back to himself. He’d pushed through the grogginess.

The sets went steadily. Nothing shaky. Slow and regular. A nice pleasant burn was building in his arms. The world went quiet as he lifted. It was just him. The tension of his arm muscles. The heavy reliability of the weight and smoothness of the bar wrapped in his hands, quickly dampened with sweat. His breath pushed through dry lips, in on the pullback, out on the stretch out. In this silence, the loudest thing was himself. He felt attuned to his body. Every twinge. Every cramp. Every rush of blood. He felt like he was floating, the only thing holding him back the slight burn in his arms. Curtis’s gentle count. Curtis’s calm pool eyes watching him and watching the bar’s steady lift. The irritation of sweat pooling beneath his underarms, dampening his muscle shirt. 

As he finished his last repetition, Curtis’s voice—low, a bit raspy, but very gentle—said “Completed, Sir.” 

Shiro nodded minutely. Let Curtis assist him in racking the weight, guiding it back into the J-hook. Once it was back safely in place, Shiro slid out and sat up. Took another drink of his water.

“Sir, that was really impressive,” Curtis enthused.

“That?” Shiro looked at the bar, shrugged. “That was nothing. I could go harder and lift for longer but I’m honestly exhausted.”

“It was moreso your technique, sir. It was so balanced and energy-efficient, not a single falter. I can see why you’re in such good shape is all I mean,” Curtis gushed. “You lift like you lead: steady and in-control.”

Shiro chuckled. Scratched the back of his neck both bashfully and to wipe away at the sweat irritating the short hair at the base. “You took my message about celebrating successes and strengths to heart, huh.”

“I,” Curtis faltered. “Sorry Sir, that was a bit excessive. Didn’t mean to fanboy.”

“Eh, don’t apologize, it’s a bit flattering.” Shiro returned the compliments, “I appreciated having you as a spotter.”

“Psht, please. I did nothing. You didn’t need any assistance, you were in control of that bar the entire time,” Curtis was rubbing the back of his neck now, bashful.

“Still needed a spotter though,” Shiro smiled. “Safety and knowing someone’s there to have my back is important, on the battlefield and in working out.” He grabbed his towel and wiped the sweat off his face and neck, also fluffing up his hair as he rubbed it over. “Besides, you did more than you think. You’re a very grounding presence, Lieutenant.”

Curtis shrugged, tried to play it off as no big deal, but Shiro could see the smile he was trying to push down. 

Shiro smiled. “Do you need a spotter now? I can return the favour.”

“Oh no that’s okay, Sir. I don’t want to take any more of your leisure time up.”

“Leisure time,” Shiro said with his fingers making quotations. “My time is for helping any member of my crew I can.”

“It’s truly fine sir. I’m thinking I’ll only do some light cardio today. A bit of running and cycling. Nothing that needs you to stick around. Please just have some time to yourself, you’ve really earned it.”

Shiro honestly felt a little bit deflated by the rejection and Curtis immediately floundered. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t want you around, because god Sir, you always make me feel like a better person than I am just by being in proximity and that feels awesome. I just don’t want you to be waiting around for me. Your time is so important.”

“You put your own routine on hold because of me,” Shiro reminded.

“Yeah but that’s different. I offered and wanted to—oh, bullocks,” Curtis stopped talking as Shiro smiled widely. 

“It’s the same for me. I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to help.”

Curtis looked at his feet before looking back up, looking a bit lost and a bit embarrassed. “Veronica says my exercise faces are ridiculous. So prepare yourself for that.”

His exercise faces were indeed ridiculous and Shiro was smiling the entire time.

They made a routine of it when they could. When break schedules allowed for it, often on alternate days, they’d both head to the gym and silently nod to each other. Sometimes they’d make a competition of it, ridiculously pushing each other to the limit, but most days it was just pleasant to do what they needed to do in relative silence, the calm steady presence by each other’s side keeping them grounded and pushing them forward on the most sleep-deprived of days. The routine and steady companionship continued for several weeks. It helped keep Shiro relaxed as they got deeper into space.


	3. Coffee & cold feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really short slice-of-life chapter update this time.

The parting of Curtis’s hair intrigued him. For such a meticulously maintained short haircut, the uneven fringe really stood out, as if he’d done it himself during an edge teenage side fringe phase. The strands touched his left eyebrow as they swept across is forehead, but the right brow only had one strand that occasionally touched it if it jostled out of place with exercise. It was a ridiculous thing to notice, but Shiro found it quite charming in the weirdest of ways and often wondered whenever he was bleary with sleep if the right brow got lonely. This was often the sign he needed to call an end to the nightly debrief and go to sleep. But a sign that would then recur in the morning where he couldn’t just call an end to the day to escape to bed. 

Shiro was worried that they had not stocked up on enough coffee for the trip out. Resource management had stocked plenty, allocating for two cups per day for every officer and cadet onboard, but Shiro was drinking enough for three people on his best days. 

Curtis enabled his habit.

The officer would be there most mornings, waiting to see him at the command centre with an extra mug of coffee just for him and a kind smile. The aroma of the coffee would lull him out of sleep and he’d always take it with a grateful smile, but he’d really need to ration himself soon. Discipline, Shiro. He needed to relearn it.

After several years without it, he was slightly ashamed of himself that he’d fallen straight back into his addiction. 

In their final year as cadets, he and Adam would often be skolling the hot beverage over study, long into the early hours, in an almost-competition. Mugs would accumulate at the sink, stained down the bottom with coffee rings. Adam was often more responsible and washed his after drinking, but during exam periods they’d be cluttering the dormitory’s benchtops. Once they even hit double digits and were told by the hall monitors to pick a single mug each and never use anymore as they’d used up every cup in the kitchenette. As they grew older, they’d savour it in the mornings, sitting side by side on the couch, and watching the plumes of steam from their cups merge together between them. 

Adam would often be tucked into his side in a ridiculously fuzzy green dressing gown that Shiro had bought him for Christmas one year. Shiro would be watching him, stroking his shoulder to help ease him into the morning through gentle ministrations. Adam would either be looking off into the distance blearily or else be fogging up his glasses if he forgot to take them off. Neither would speak until they had finished their first cup: Adam would be cranky and short-tempered unless caffeinated at that hour, and Shiro would be too groggy to say anything approaching conversation. They’d just have each other and their soothing beverages. It was a comfortable stillness. 

That morning ritual helped get them through each day. Gave it the nicest start. Sunlight would filter through the blinds as it rose, bringing out the tawny, almost golden undertones of his hair. Paint golden freckles on his face. Shiro would duck his face into that hair when he could, smelling the faint traces of apple-scented shampoo in the soft strands. Nuzzle sleepily down and kiss his cheeks, cup his face. 

Shiro wished he’d kissed him every morning.

But some days neither was in the mood for it. Adam would sometimes complain about morning breath. Shiro knew now that he’d been self-conscious about accepting so much affection, his parents distanced and his own stubborn pride covering up a fear of being vulnerable, but at the time those morning rejections stung. Other days they chatted. Some days they sat further apart. Others on completely different ends of the couch, mentally going over arguments they’d had the night before and things they’d wished they’d said. Now all Shiro wished was that he’d held him closer. At the time he’d missed his warmth by his side, now the memories just stung with regret and missed opportunity, measured in a metre between them and the permanent severing of time. Most of those bad days came in the lead-up to Kerberos. 

The coffees Curtis made Shiro were different. A little sweeter—he hadn’t quite gotten the sugar-to-coffee ratios down to Shiro’s past levels, but Shiro kind of liked the change. There was a bittersweet edge to them, but he was relieved they did not taste the same. Along with increasing the sugar, Curtis also increased the amount of instant. The less sad memories to sift through each morning, the better.

He was waiting for Shiro with a communication pad in his hand, a coffee in the other and another mug steaming behind him. A tiny frown pinched the corner of his mouth down as his eyes darted over the document on the pad. A distressed “hn.” Shiro slowed his strides down. Leaned casually against the desk beside him, careful not to knock his coffee.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Curtis’s head snapped up, eyes wide and almost knocked the comms pad out of his hand as he swung his coffee-bearing hand up to wave before realizing his hand wasn’t free to do so. “Captain! Hello. Good morning. I got you coffee—

He swivelled, placed his own mug and pad down and went to hand Shiro the mug only to see the Shiro was already taking a soothing, cheeky sip from it.

“It’s really good. Just what I needed, thank you.”

Curtis beamed, nodding politely before taking a sip. The man nervously fiddled with his hands as he wrapped them around the mug. Shiro noticed his fingers—so long and slender, pianist’s fingers now wasted but nevertheless nimble on a computer keyboard—had healed over scars on their side. His fingernails had been chewed slightly, betraying a nervous habit he had under control when in the presence of others. 

“How’d you sleep?”

Curtis startled a little out of his own thoughts but put on a charming smile. “I slept comfortably, Sir. The heating vents had been fixed in my room, so I was quite toasty for once. My toes certainly appreciated it.”

“Your toes?” Shiro took a long sip of coffee, trying to keep his tone more measured than intrigued.

“It’s a bit embarrassing, Sir,” Curtis scratched at the back of his neck. “I tend to lose my socks in my sleep. Often just one. I don’t know how it happens, I think I just roll around too much and get tangled. And because I’m quite tall and the ship’s blankets quite small, I always seem to wind up with my exposed foot peaking through from under the blanket. Getting cold air against my toes? Made it so difficult to sleep.”

Shiro chuckled lightly. “I’m lucky I’ve never had that problem. I mean, I sleep barefoot anyway, but that sounds like a lot of lost socks.”

“I usually find the sock in the morning when I shake the blanket out.”

“And for the times you can’t?”

“I blame the aliens, Sir. Well, I did until we actually met many and they don’t deserve that slander. So instead it’s my mum’s washing-machine thief fairy, haunting me from beyond her house.”

Shiro gave him a blank look.

Curtis awkwardly mumbled. “That’s…that’s just what she used to call it when socks seemed to go missing in the wash.”

Shiro took a long sip of his coffee, eyes steadily trailing on his progressively floundering lieutenant. Curtis looked like he wanted to die and was currently calculating the steps between the Bridge and the nearest airlock. 

“Sirs!” Veronica interrupted, sidling up to the pair. 

Curtis glanced to Shiro. “Excuse me a moment.”

Shiro’s eyes widened. “What, why—

Veronica watched him leave, clutching his holo-pad and mug like a lifeline. Shiro could hear him muttering what sounded like “Fucking, toes? Really? Get it together” as he exited the room.

Shiro called out behind him. “Meet me in the mess-hall later for lunch?” But he got no response. He slumped.

Veronica pushed her glasses up, her face looking like a cat that had gotten the canary and was gearing up to torture it. 

Shiro felt his brow twitch. “What is it, McClain?”

“Oh nothing, nothing,” Veronica stretched her arms out in front of her. Shiro winced at the pop but she grinned over her shoulder at him. “So you and Curtis working on anything I should know about? Going over anything new?”

“Well I learned he gets cold feet a lot these days,” Shiro said absentmindedly.

“What about?” Veronica stopped stretching. “The Lieutenant has never struck me as a cowardly man before. What’s he running away from?”

“What? No, I mean he gets cold feet a lot. In his sleep.”

Veronica slowly blinked, owlish behind her glasses. “And he told you this … why?”

“I don’t know Veronica,” Shiro slumped, hands clenching his hair. “I just don’t know.”


	4. Bad mornings & a need for stillness

He felt like he’d been choked by cotton balls overnight and only just lived to tell the tale. His throat was dry. Skin a little misty with sweat. It was all over his body, sticking his blanket to him like cling-wrap. He registered distantly that he was struggling to breath. That his head felt too heavy to lift. His chest felt as if it had constricted around hollow thuds. He was aware of these things, vaguely, but this awareness was like peering through a sheet covering up his brain. His body was responsive, but he was not responsive to his body. His brain felt weighed down, simultaneously heavy and like it was being lifted by fog. His mind has seemingly insulated itself against experiencing the terror and arousal his body was flickering through. 

All he could feel was the heaviness of his body. The faint wheezing of the mini-fridge in his room. 

He couldn’t even feel the terror that should accompany the realization he’d gone numb. All he felt was an extreme tiredness. The repeated thought “I can’t move” but no fear from it. It was what it was. 

Distantly, he was alarmed by this. What if the ATLAS was attacked and he wasn’t there to help his crew make it through the event? But this thought dissipated back into the ether of his stillness with barely a spike of panic. He couldn’t cope with such a thought at the moment. Couldn’t cope with alarm. So his mind just let it go.

His muscles contracted and shivered. Although the air was warm, he trembled. His light was flickering. A tuft of hair had fallen sticky against his eye, irritating the lens, but he couldn’t muster the energy to wipe it away. 

He just lay there. 

Shiro knew, logically, that time was not standing still. While his body relatively was, people and voices were flowing under the door towards him. He couldn’t understand the words, or the tone, or who among the crew was speaking. Couldn’t tell if it was just people rushing in the corridors, or if some had stopped at his door to speak to each other or to him. They were disembodied. Devoid of meaning. Syllables that muffled each proceeding one, tangled. 

But Shiro didn’t feel he was there. Wasn’t even sure if he was in his own body—not that he was. The scars were different. Ones ached in his back above his kidneys that he never remembered getting. From the arena? Or had his clone received them? He tried not to think about it, tried not to think of the repulsion of being slotted into another body as if his soul was being shoved into a resistant sleeve. The hair at the back of his neck prickled, but that was all he could muster for alarm.

He wasn’t in his body. He couldn’t see it, didn’t want to see it, but he was watching it from above. Watching his neurons flicker with the barest of awareness. Watching emotions smooth down into tired nothing. Watched his chest heave, as if his heart and lungs were having trouble keeping the weight of it moving. His singlet was soaked through with nightmares and sweat, increasing the feeling he was wrapped in clingwrap as he could see parts of his skin through transparent patches. 

Saw a nasty line of a scar that had etched itself into his pecs to the top of his belly button, barely avoiding ripping off a nipple as it gouged itself into his flesh. Nausea see-sawed into awareness and out at the sight, the reminder of what his captors had done to him. He remembered that one. Distantly, like a fact not a lived experience. Couldn’t feel it in the body as he recalled the other prisoner—an alien, insectoid, buzzing with terror and youth—attempted to ram his pincered hand into his chest in a desperate attempt to survive the conflict. Shiro couldn’t smell it now, couldn’t recall the smell, but his brain supplied that his torn flesh smelt like pus and iron. Although he wasn’t sure if that was chronologically what occurred when pierced. It had sounded like ripping open the zip of a suitcase. 

He knew he should unzip himself from his bed. But there was no energy left. Nor any desire to move. All he could do was watch, discombobulated, not fully in his body, as his self-sealed-over chest rose and fell.

He knew that if he thought about any of what was occurring too hard, he’d be shot through with panic. Veins surging with terror. With a kaleidoscope of traumatic memories parading and stomping over him, one after the other after the other in a sensory procession overlapping itself. He couldn’t handle that. Not this morning. His body and mind was protecting him. 

Numbness was sometimes better than feeling the off-centring panic rising in the chest. Definitely better than reliving the memories.

He’d woken up before his alarm. He could hear its buzz through the fog, but it was not enough to drag him through it. It buzzed, and it buzzed and it buzzed, with the veracity and ferociousness of a mosquito, but he barely registered any annoyance with it. It was as if his emotions and senses had been shoved in freezing waters and then been pulled out and suspended above the lake, occasionally grazing it if he caught any of the momentary thoughts that dazed into awareness. He was left to shiver and grow numb in the air. But so long as he didn’t move a muscle, he couldn’t fall back in.

He just stared at the ceiling. Didn’t even count the cracks.

Curtis’s suggestion to ‘just be’ was terrifying if this is what it was.

It felt like failure. Like dereliction of duties. Like pure exhaustion.

His shivering body eventually contorted, shifted, pulled his blanket fully around him. Bare toes retracted into the cacoon warmth. Safe. Safe and warm. Wasn’t that what Lance had said had been the eerie call of the Baku Garden? What was wrong with it?

His second, third, and forth alarms went off unregistered in succession. He remained still.

This wasn’t himself. This couldn’t be himself. He was better than this. 

(In a kinder frame of mind he would realise this was him, just an off day).

He focused on trying to find the feelings of shame that should have been there, only felt an empty pang that threatened an avalanche of anxiety. 

He groaned, air whispering through his teeth. Pangs were starting to ache in his back from maintaining a curved position that was not natural to his body. He curled up even further and lay on his side. His mind was asking him to make the choice between being overwhelmed with terror or remaining in apathy. He knew both would result in inaction.   
He chose to remain relatively calm in his dissociation. Stared ahead. He’d rolled onto the side that just showed a lamp. Not the wall with pictures snuck onboard of his time—not actually his time—in the Voltron Show that Hunk had framed for him, and Adam and he standing in their flight uniforms, Adam throwing up the peace sign over his shoulder.  
What he would give for peace without this strange undercurrent of anxiety and unease.

Shiro let his world become the hum of the fridge, left his mind in exhausted static. 

And then, through that blanket, a knock on the door.

A familiar: “Sir?”

Shiro felt three urges and thoughts: one, that he needed to stay exactly where he was right now or else really terrible things would happen. Two, frustration and a spike of anger at the communications officer for disrupting his silence and bringing him back to the present—he wanted to yell “Piss off” at the top of his lungs, but even in the spikes of irritation he knew this was fundamentally unfair. Finally three, the urge to hide. He did this by retracting further into his blanket, burying his head inside of it like a turtle would hide in their shell.

Maybe if he said nothing, Curtis would simply go away.

Curtis knocked again. “Sir, are you awake? Is everything okay?”

Shiro groaned and rolled over, shoving his pillow over his head and holding it over his ears.

Curtis tentatively spoke up again. “Sir I heard movement in there. May I come in?”

There was no movement from Curtis’s side of the door as he waited for a response. Shiro half-wondered if he’d stay politely standing outside the door for the day if he gave no answer either way. Engrained over-politeness and patience. He started worrying that Curtis may have been punished for any forward transgression in communication. Anyone else would have just barged in by now, Keith and Katie in particular if they thought there was a problem. Shiro sighed, deep and long. 

He was just so tired …

“Sir do you want me to come by later? Every … everything’s okay on the Bridge for the time being, nothing bad has happened we’re just confused. No pressure if you’ve got a stomach bug or something, I can let them know you might have food poisoning or the space flu. Just. Please let me know you’re doing alright so I can leave with a sound-mind? I don’t want to be walking by if you’re in agony or there’s something immobilising you in your room. Shit sir, I’m freaking myself out with thoughts now. Um. Mind if I look in just to make sure there’s nothing in your room killing you? Tell me to piss off if you need to. Just … make a noise.”

Shiro deflated in his bed. Knew he had to find some motivation to speak. The energy of it simmered in his throat. It took what little was there out of him when he said, voice raspy with dryness: “I’m not feeling up to it. I … I can’t move.”

“Can’t move?” there was scuffling. Alarm that saw the door thrown open. A flustered, panicked Curtis dashed into the room, eyes flicking to every part of the room before settling on the bed. Seeing the bundled up blankets, the pillow, and the shape of Shiro under it all, made the man deflate with relief before his shoulders rose up again in anxiety. “I’m relieved nothing has fallen on you sir. That nothing is holding you down. I …” Shiro rolled minutely, peeking an eye through the blanket. “I’m terribly sorry for barging in like that. For going against your wishes. I just panicked.”

Shiro felt exhaustion pull his face back towards the mattress. He felt like he wanted to sleep, although he knew if he tried he would not be able to. Shiro didn’t answer. He could hear Curtis cautiously creep closer. 

There was silence. And then he could his communications officer’s footsteps. Not leaving out the door, but instead walking with purpose towards his kitchenette. A few cupboard doors were opened. There seemed to be an effort to make it quieter—not swinging them out wildly or slamming them closed, but slowly and with careful hands intended to mute the sound as much as the could. Finally the closing and opening stopped as Curtis could be heard grabbing something—it sounded fragile, like glass scraping off wood—and then moving towards the fridge with purpose. It was opened, looked in, then shut with a whispered ‘I can’t believe you don’t refrigerate your water supply” followed by the sound of the tap running. The man then placed what was most likely a glass of water down at his bedside. “For when you’re ready to drink it, Captain. I always find it helps a little.” 

Shiro sat up, looking out from the blankets, eyes darting at the glass suspiciously. His captors used to bring him water after every battle. He mentally corrected himself; Curtis was not his captor. Nothing would have been added to it. It’s healthy. The spike of alarm faded into his sea of nausea and fuzziness. He relaxed and flopped back into the mattress.  
Curtis looked at him in alarm. Watched the jackrabbiting rise-and-fall of his chest waning into steadier beats. “Are … are you okay sir?”

Shiro let out a long sigh. Took in a deep breath and nodded. “Just need to get my bearings.”

Curtis nodded in turn. “That’s okay, Sir. I’ll be out of your hair in a moment. Will let the others know that need to that you’re not feeling well and will be taking the morning off and seeing how you go from there. Does that sound like a plan, sir?”

Shiro weakly barked out a laugh. “Feels like I’m never going to move. Might take more than just the morning, Lieutenant.”

“Then it’ll take more than the morning. We’ll plan for it,” he smiled that gentle, calming smile. “These things happen. Now I know you’re uncomfortable with a practical stranger in the room. Hell, anybody in your room is going to be awful when you’re feeling vulnerable. But I was wondering if there is anyone you’d feel comfortable sitting with you during this time? Might be annoying, but presence and someone to listen when you need someone to talk to can really help. Maybe I could ask Hunk to bring you up something healthy to eat? A full stomach and hydration might help. Or your brother? Miss Katie Holt?”

“She prefers to go by Pidge now,” Shiro corrected out of habit. He was a bit relieved that he was returning to his thoughts. Being centred on questions delivered slowly, but not overwhelmingly. But he could feel he was going to fall back into fuzziness and potential panic at any moment. “I would prefer not to see my brother. Not … not when I’m like this. I’m supposed to be his hero.”

“You are his hero,” Curtis said sadly but kindly. “Seeing you on a rougher day isn’t going to change that. But of course I’ll respect your wishes. The Princess of Altea, then?”

Shiro groaned. Put his hands over his eyes. “Allura’s going through a lot right now. I think she feels another sense of loss, after just learning that her people are alive. To hear of Honerva’s treachery and manipulations. That they see Allura as a traitor it’s just … too much. For all her poise and maturity and wisdom, she’s just a teenage girl. I don’t want to put another burden on her with my problems. Same with the rest of the paladins. They should be enjoying time to just breath and … I don’t know. Be kids.”

Curtis snorted. “You say that like you’re so old.”

“I feel it,” Shiro said honestly, before deflecting with a joke. “Just look at all these grey hairs.”

“Tonnes of people get them prematurely. There’s always hair dye if you’re self-conscious. But quintessence grey doesn’t make you old. Just makes you a silver fo—silver-haired man. It’s quite modern. Quite stylish. Nothing … nothing to feel old about. Please don’t feel self-conscious.” Curtis put a hand over his face and looked like he wanted to cry. “I’m making an idiot of myself when you’re so exhausted and down. Shit I’m awful.”

Shiro felt himself smiling for the first time that morning. It was a huge effort to get there, but it felt honest and true. “It’s okay. It’s nothing bad, don’t worry. I meant it as a joke though. I’m exhausted but I’m still young, I know that. Just … not as young as the rest of the paladins. They’ve seen too much as it is. I don’t want to add their former leader’s mental health concerns to their own.”

Curtis sighed. Looked as if he wanted to say something to argue but took one look at Shiro’s fatigued features and thought better of it. “I won’t ask them. What about Coran?” There was a beat of silence as Shiro considered this, and Curtis continued. “On the condition that he’s his quieter, more mature version of himself.”

Shiro nodded, completely spent at this point and longing for more sleep. (He knew he would not be able to sleep)


End file.
